


She's the art people write about, I could type for days.

by orphan_account



Category: Agent Carter - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Fluff, F/F, im sorry, short oneshot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 04:09:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3276152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angie is a secret lover of art and Peggy misses the colour blue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She's the art people write about, I could type for days.

**Author's Note:**

> I made myself sad writing this, these two should never have angst...ever omg.

It was colours, colours that I dived into without a thought. It was fast and hard but it was true and beautiful. 

They flicked around my nails and my knuckles ensnaring them, coiling around and around in wisps of sunsets and endless seas as I pushed my hand into the can of the paint. 

She was next to me. Watching the flying purples that she used to see at her old apartments horizon and the reds that yelled like her father used too. She was behind me when I touched the blue, the cool blue. Like melted ice it numbed the tips of my fingers but felt warm to my nails. I saw her face as it consumed my hand, it looked in wonder and a dose of apprehension as the blue of her mothers eyes touched my warm skin. 

The yellow of her best friend scraped my wrist, barking and wagging his tail like he used too. 

With the light streaming through the windows she was the art we would go to on rare Saturdays. When her shift ended and she clocked out, Angie and I would travel to the local art gallery and it didn't matter if we stared too long at each other or if we brushed hands for everyone was looking up at masterpieces, I didn’t. I like to think I had my own right there.

We talked of the techniques and what colours blended well, we talked of secret meanings and messages that the paint would show. She would ramble cutely about how if she had a favourite colour it would be brown, a chocolate brown. She said it to me with her arm hooked in mine and a gaze of love.

"Its your eyes," she said. "A good and sweet chocolate, English. I get kinda addicted sometimes" 

My favourite seems to change everyday, whenever she wears something different. I tell her that in the mornings as she leaves for daily errands, a nice fitting dress of light green. And a blush from her cheeks is always worth it as she walks out the front door as I call out from my position on the bed. 

“It seems green is my favourite today, darling” 

It’s funny, the woman who more or so danced with no care and a voice that bubbled through her throat is into art. The optimistic charming waitress behind the counter loved to paint and that's where we would most likely be found after the trip to the gallery. In her apartment with a sheet on the floor and canvases at the ready. 

I like to think that's where we fell in love. Between cotton and warmth as we would get distracted by each other and fall to the paint splattered bed sheets and not hold a care in the world. 

Her hair was up in a curly small ponytail and to me, its times like this that she’s never seemed so happy. And as I dolloped a spot of orange on my finger and dabbed it too her nose her smile widened to an upturn of lips. I turned back around to languidly trace the paintbrush across the surface of a canvas. But I hear small laughs behind me and with my head turned over my shoulder towards her to cheekily smile, I noticed her diluted red apron had splattered black and white. 

In her right hand she carried a paintbrush and she was resting her left arm atop it as she bit her finger from keeping in a full laugh. She curled a lock of my messy bun (really paint is so hard to get out of hair) between her fingers and let the laugh out as she gazed at our now paint ridden faces. 

I laughed with her as I gathered more paint and swiped her cheek and I felt her smile and finger as warm yellow spread my chin. But I faltered as she came up in front of me whispering of the late night pinks and reds that would spill from her hands as they lightly traced my hips. The paintbrush tickled my neck as I shivered and my hand searched backwards but slipped further more into the touch of the colours, hitting the bottom of the bucket with the flat of my palm.

Elbow deep in paint, yet her eyes were the most colourful thing I’ve seen. And more whispers turned into touches as more touches turned into scarlet lips and cream sheets as we so easily got paint splattered in our hair. 

Aisles and cans on the floor, the pinks flew in fast and the reds seeped in slow and maybe holding colours is like holding her. With aluminium cans reminding me of the smell of her hair and the softness of her lips. 

Or the sheets reminding me of the feel of her body on mine, the moans and the whispers. The clenching of my hands and stomach or the bliss of holding Angie in my arms. I have the windows of morning sun to remind me of the colour of her skin.

And I have the brushes to remind me of her hair and her light eyelashes, but it never seems quite enough.

Ever. 

Maybe the paints dried up, gone. But most of the time they can't be, as all of them are empty. 

And maybe, just maybe I don’t have to keep coming in her old art room and pouring paint in every crevice as mournful blues, unfair reds and endless blacks paint the walls. Maybe I don't have to scream and yell and rip canvases from their perch or rip the sheets in half. 

Maybe I can learn to love the colour green again without having visions of Angie’s light fitting dress mixing with red as it seeps slowly through the leafy green as I cover the wound desperately. 

Maybe she can hold me, tickling my neck and palming pretty pinks into my flesh so I can breathe again. 

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. 

Its a mantra as I delve another tin can into the wall. It hits her wooden aisle, toppling over in a sea of a rich sky blue. But I falter at the sight of it and drop to my knees, fresh tears spilling over. 

(because I can’t manage seeing her eyes again)


End file.
